


how the mighty fall

by nevernevergirl



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6379912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevernevergirl/pseuds/nevernevergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She won’t push him past this pretense, because above all else, Margo believes in choice. He wants to hate that, he truly does, but in his more honest moments he knows that’s what he needs.</p>
<p>He can’t choose the pretense.</p>
<p>1x10 rewrite: Eliot finds Margo, not her golem, and has an honest conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the mighty fall

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the last Eliot + Margo scene in 1x10, borrowing a bit of the dialogue from the actual scene! It broke my heart that Eliot summoned up all that vulnerability at the wrong moment, and that Margo didn't get to hear that, and while I think it worked for the episode, I wanted to play around with the idea of Margo actually hearing it. A lot of Eliot introspection while I try to get a grasp on their dynamic!

His stomach is doing cartwheels and backflips with the sort of precision and intensity that would easily merit a spot on the Olympic gymnastics team with the right amount of inclination and ambition. It’s definitely not the worst part of this whole godforsaken situation, but he can’t remember ever feeling like this around _Margo_ . He’d been nervous during the trials (vulnerability was a bitch and a half), but he hadn’t felt like this-- dizzy sick in a way that _probably_ has little-to-nothing to do with the tab of green he shouldn’t have taken, with a steady rise of emotional bile seeping through to pollute his veins and respiratory system and all other sorts of vital parts.

Margo sits on the couch with an unwieldy old spellbook settled on her lap. Eliot knows that she knows he’s walked in. She’s ignoring him.  He sucks it up and braces himself, forcing casual into his stride as he walks over, sitting next to her and feeling the space between them profoundly.

“Got these for ya, bitch,” he says, tone as light as he can make it as he hands over the box of cookies. She stills for a moment, and he holds his breath as he waits for her to choose. “It’s your fave.”

And then she smiles-- this slow, beautiful thing. Vanity floods her features, and it’s familiar and it’s comforting, and he almost feels himself relax. Margo chooses when to be flattered just like Margo chooses everything else. Apparently he hasn’t been quite enough of a tool that she won’t choose _him_. He holds on to that like a lifeline and tries to let it hold him steady.

“Aw! Thanks, bitch.”

He watches her as she takes a bite like the past day hasn’t happened, like the past _six weeks_ haven’t happened, and he’s reminded why he’s always been more than a little in love with her in one way or another. With Margo, it can be done, over, apology accepted like it never happened in the first place. She is gracious in granting him the luxury of the illusion. She holds out a cookie like absolution, and he grins as he bites it straight out of her hand.

“Light reading?” he asks, nodding toward the book still in her lap. She makes a disapproving face as she reaches up, delicately wiping stray crumbs from his chin as he grins automatically--if not fully.

“Research on golems. The Margolem was draining my chi, so she has to be good for more than spooning a sub-par dickhead.”

“I thought you were going to destroy her?”

“Oh, I was. But I thought I’d keep her around a little longer. She might come in handy.”

“Clever bitch,” he manages a smile and leans in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and it would be _easy_ , so easy to keep going like this. He could get up right now, mix up a cocktail to chase down the cookies, and spend the evening in Margo’s bed curled up together casting beautiful, frivolous spells.

She won’t push him past this pretense, because above all else, Margo believes in choice. He wants to hate that, he truly does, but in his more honest moments he knows that’s what he needs.

He can’t choose the pretense.

“I’m sorry,” he says, drawing a deep breath. She stops, hands still on the page she’s gone back to scanning. After a moment, she nods almost imperceptibly.

“I know, Eliot,” she says, voice pitched low. They don’t do this. They _can_ . They just _don’t_. But he needs to, now.

“Can we really talk, bambi?” His voice shakes and he hates it and it only feels better when she looks up at him, tilting her head to the side. “I think Professor Lipson could have been wrong about me. I think something might really be broken.”

“Yeah,” she says, quietly. “I think so, too.”

He stares at her for a timeless moment, biting back the _what the fuck_ rolling towards the tip of his tongue. He shakes his head and lets out a hollow laugh because of _course_ \-- one possessed Texan, and everything he’s carefully crafted for years now comes crashing down. He feels numb, and he wants his flask. He needs to be numb-er. More numb. Whatever.

“Right. Of course you do. That’s lovely, Margo, really.” He shifts away, starting to stand. Margo sets her book aside, groaning as she grabs at his arm, yanking him down. 

“ _Eliot_ ,” she says, sharply, but he looks at her, and her eyes are wide and honest. He stills, and her hand slides down his forearm, clasping his and lacing their fingers together. “You’re ripping yourself apart.”

It isn’t a secret, _obviously_ , but it feels like the Trials all over again, but backwards-- _hearing_ his ultimate truth parroted back at him by the only person he’s got left that matters. He shatters then, shaking as he leans against her. She presses their foreheads together and holds onto his hand, tightly. He tries to breathe. It’s still not easy, but at least he’s not pretending it is anymore.

“I’m fucking sick of this,” he mutters. “I’m fucking tired, and I can’t make it _stop_.”

“I know, honey, I know,” she murmurs, voice low in his ear. Her nails dig into the skin at the back of his hand. He drinks in the sting of it.

“Stay,” he croaks out. She nods, just slightly.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she says-- her own truth this time. It envelops him.

“I don’t care. Stay anyway.”


End file.
